


In Which There is Gratuitous Nipple Pinching

by baku_midnight



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen finds it fucking hilarious how Misha’s voice goes really high sometimes, like how he starts howling in increasingly shrill cadence “don’t you dare–don’t you dare…!” just before Jensen finds his nipple through his t-shirt and latches on tight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which There is Gratuitous Nipple Pinching

**Author's Note:**

> Jensen + Misha + nipple pinching. Inspired by that one pic from VanCon13. http://midorisanni.tumblr.com/post/59665521997

Elbows knocking, fists clenching around arms, and a particularly purposeful shove across the couch and they’re off, in a wrestling match for the ages. As graceful as two untrained, oversized  old men can be in a mess of limbs, straining for leverage over the other until they’re both red-faced and sore. Misha’s got Jensen’s head in a lock, elbow clenched tight around the back of his neck, holding him face-down into the carpet, grinning in his eminent victory. Jensen growls beneath him, hands sealed around the bones of Misha’s sturdy arm, trying to pull back in vain on an awkward angle behind his own head.

 

“You ready to give up?” Misha asks through his back teeth, clenched in the effort. He sits himself up on one arm, bracing against the scratchy carpet and Jensen’s broad shoulder, raising up just a few proud inches, quite unaware that that might be his undoing.

 

Because just then Jensen goes quiet, like he does when he’s getting an idea – Misha can tell when the man is up to something because unlike Jared, a born prankster, who will keep up the act, will keep on with whatever he’s doing right up until the last second when he’s stealing a part of your lunch right out from under you; Jensen’s got that tell. He goes silent, lips relaxed, face blank, but Misha catches too late to stop the hand snaking its way across his front and towards his nipple.

 

Jensen finds it fucking hilarious how Misha’s voice goes really high sometimes, like how he starts howling in increasingly shrill cadence “don’t you dare–don’t you dare…!” just before Jensen finds his nipple through his t-shirt and latches on tight.

 

Then Misha lets out this pathetically loud groan, flinching tight, going stiff like a board so it’s easy enough for Jensen to roll out of his grip and shift their positions, shoving Misha over on to his back and climbing enough on top and hold the man down. Strategically laying half-across him he continues to pull on his nipple in rhythmic, timed strokes to increase the agony of the assault against the tender nub.

 

“You shouldn’t…do that,” Misha groans out, voice pinched.

 

“Oh yeah?” Jensen mumbles back, pupils wide, face stoic as usual. “Or what?”

 

Misha doesn’t give him an answer, tilting his head distractingly to the side and then slamming his knee against Jensen’s side, lodging it into the flesh beneath Jensen’s ribs. Jensen lets out a yelp of pain, curling up and relinquishing his grip long enough for Misha to roll them over with his legs.

 

He settles down, mercilessly plopping his full weight onto Jensen’s stomach.

 

“You’re heavier than you look,” Jensen says out, voice crushed, nearly wheezing. Misha grins and backs up just a little, balancing his weight where it’s less vulnerable, settling on Jensen’s hips instead.

 

But Jensen doesn’t let up, especially when the reaction in behind his partner’s jeans’ zipper is calling out to him so readily. He’s seen it, they’ve both seen it, and Misha doesn’t have enough time to swat Jensen’s hand away when it comes back up to pinch his left nipple again.

 

Misha lets out a gasp, filling his lungs entirely until his chest puffs forth like a preening bird. He grabs onto Jensen’s wrist with both hands, knowing any attempt to forcibly pull away could result in losing a nipple, of which he has grown increasingly used to having a pair, and would also put him in the position of being vulnerable to be pinned again.

 

Which is _not_ going to happen. They can be locked like this forever, for all Misha cares, Jensen can keep up his stupid little nipple-squeezing gesture until they expire, and Misha won’t relinquish his place atop the other man’s hips. He’ll laugh as they grow old, relish as the wrinkles fill in on the male-modelling son-of-a-gun’s lovely face.

 

“You really gotta stop that,” Misha mumbles out, hissing in shock at a particularly rough twist. Jensen smiles at the feel of Misha’s thighs and ass clenching around him as he tenses up.

 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Jensen says out in that low, quiet tone that makes Misha crazy, makes his blood boil with arousal and rage because how can this man be so _hot_ when he’s acting like such a _dick?_ “I fail to see the problem here; got you up there, squirming around.” He takes the stiff head of Misha’s nipple in between middle finger and thumb and strokes across the tip with a third finger, swirling his pointer in a circle around the tiny nub.

 

“I think this is just where I want you.” Jensen says with a smile, _a smile_ , damn him, all the while teasing Misha’s poor nipple for all it’s worth.

 

“The problem,” Misha grits out, the tight voice of patience worn thin – Jensen smiles at the miniscule little moan that escapes him when Misha shifts against his abs, “is that you’re messing with something you don’t know the _consequences_ of messing with.”

 

Chest contracting with breath Misha reaches down with one hand, snapping his easy-access button-fly open and tugging himself free from behind the zipper. His member lays flush with the line of Jensen’s thigh, grinding into the line of his leg, the head of his erection pressed right into the joint of his hip.

 

Misha grinds himself along Jensen’s hip, backing his ass slowly down Jensen’s legs so he can rut into the crease between his denim-clad thighs, revelling in the roughness against his wanting cock. He asks questions slyly with his eyes, most of which contain the word “ _douchebag_ ” and the phrase “ _not so happy now are you_ ” looking down through heavy lashes at Jensen’s prone form. He lets out a sort of grunting gasp and tosses his head back, eyes closed.

 

Jensen just grins because Misha looks pretty damn gorgeous like that, back arched out like a dancer, sudden contrast to his usual shy slump, chest thrust forward like a preening pheasant. He takes the moment of distraction to slide his hands under Misha’s shirt and force it up around his breastbone, bunching the grey fabric up under his armpits, exposing his chest.

 

Misha yelps in protest, scrambling to pull Jensen’s hands away, exceeding only in making the man tighten his grip on Misha’s poor, abused nipple. He spins around the tip in rapid circles now, working the poor nub to within an inch of its life, feeling Misha’s hips draw up and his arousal increase with every cycle.

 

It looks like Misha’s about to give in, then, eyes dark with lust, lidded until a mere slit of blue appears beneath the heavy downturned lashes. He licks his lips, gasping out the tiniest little protest, but all that comes out in words is a helpless “…still just the one?”

 

Jensen smirks. Outright _smirks_ , suddenly extremely pleased with the fact that certain body parts come in twos. He slides his other hand up, taking the second nipple and working it with the first.

 

Misha throws back his head in what might be a sob or a laugh, hysterical over the whole situation. He’s got a weakness, it’s not like he doesn’t know it. He’s not that obtuse about his own body, 30+ years of experience with his own sexuality doesn’t amount to nothing. It’s just the fault of his bull-headed co-stars and their stupid games of belligerent masculinity that put him in the unenviable position of being at Jensen’s mercy.

 

Misha ruts a few times into the slide of Jensen’s thighs, stroking his hand over his cock once or twice, petting it down. Jensen laughs at the tender treatment, and Misha reaches out spitefully then, putting his hands over Jensen’s pecs and attempting to return the favour.

 

“Not ticklish, remember?” Jensen says without so much as a flinch. _Damn_ him. Damn his beautiful, unmovable face.

 

“Yeah?” Misha whispers back, harshly undoing a zipper. “What do you call this?”

 

He sticks a hand down into Jensen’s pants and takes his shaft roughly in one hand, pleased with the little stutter of breath and sound that comes from the back of his co-star’s throat.

 

“Do you really need me to explain it to you?” Jensen says back, unaffected, or as unaffected as a man with that insistent an erection can be. He pushes into Misha’s hand instead of pulling away, because apparently they’re still playing “chicken”. Because _that’s real mature_.

 

Jensen bucks his hips up suddenly, throwing Misha off balance and making him gasp out in shock. The look on his face turns quickly to agony though, as Jensen starts to squeeze harder. Misha’d grown used to the attention on his now obscenely sensitive chest, the tingling turned into a faint buzz of static electricity he could mostly ignore, but now Jensen has apparently brought out the big guns, and Misha cries out and thrusts forward into the movement.

 

Jensen seems to enjoy the way he can lead Misha around by the chest, pulling him forward so he’s hunched over Jensen’s body, hips rocking their way back up to his waist to join his upper half. He pulls down on the now swollen nubs, bright red and fondled to within an inch of their little lives.

 

“You gotta—you gotta stop— _Jensen!_ ” Misha gasps out, slotting his hands one over his own cock and one over Jensen’s. He holds there a moment, unable to get a solid grip, too overwhelmed by the sensation of broad, hot fingers all but tearing his chest apart.

 

Then he grips, starts to rub with almost malicious intent, hard and fast along his and Jensen’s standing shafts. He groans and lifts his hands to his mouth one after the other, licking a fat wet stripe along the palm, breath hitching as he reaches back down and continues to stroke, jacking himself and Jensen off one in each hand.

 

Misha should have the upper hand, now, like, it’s kind of impossible to beat a double-fisted hand-job done with all the skill he so obviously employs. But unfortunately sitting on Jensen’s stomach has left the bastard’s legs free, and Jensen bends them then, pressing his knees against the back of Misha’s hips and sending him falling forward.

 

“You… _fucker!_ ” Misha gasps out nearly silently as his cock slots into place alongside Jensen’s, heads slipping past each other and making both men flinch in terror and Jensen pinch down just _hard_ on Misha’s nipples. Misha cries out in shock, could almost start sobbing just then because really, what did he ever do to deserve this kind of attention?

 

All he can do is fight back, and soon it’s just a furious mess of hands rubbing harder and faster, cocks wet with sweat and clear precum and spit. As he speeds up Jensen fondles his chest with more urgency, swirling his pointer fingers in broader, lazier, but more importantly _harder_ circles. Misha groans and throws back his head, hating himself for reaching the end so quickly but revelling in the joy that Jensen’s getting close too, and he speeds up his strokes, squeezing harder on the shafts and going loose around the tips, fucking into the tunnel of his fingers with sharp jolts of his hips, feeling Jensen do the same as they climb closer and closer.

 

Misha cries as he finishes, feeling Jensen tense beneath him and let out a tiny little grunt like the dainty fucker he is. He strokes vehemently through the aftershocks, panting softly, milking every last drop of Jensen’s come, feeling the way Jensen’s thighs twitch under his ass with every wave of orgasm.

 

“You know I wouldn’t do it so much if you didn’t _like_ it so much,” Jensen insists with a little grin, suddenly all dapper-suave again despite still having his cock out.

 

Misha rolls his eyes, before wincing, chest numb as Jensen releases him, a heat like rug-burn spreading across his flush-pinked chest. “You’re an ass, I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re so charming,” he retorts idly, planting his hands and sliding his knees apart so he can lie closer to Jensen.

 

Jensen gives him a little smile in return, and reaches a hand gently under Misha’s wrinkled shirt, sliding the palm around his shoulders and keeping the shirt up while he stretches up to kiss Misha’s chest. He gives each raw, dusky pink bud a gentle kiss in apology, bouncy lips brushing softly across a pec to Misha’s sternum before pulling away.

 

Misha sighs and looks down at Jensen, and there’s something in those green eyes he can’t help but want to forgive. He pulls his hand away from his lap, covered with semen all across his knuckles and in the webs of his fingers, and Jensen follows his hand with a caring attention to detail that Misha can’t help but be flattered by.

 

It almost makes him not want to rub his sticky, cum-coated hand all over Jensen’s pretty shirt.

 

Almost.


End file.
